


Vicious Circle

by villainsmatter



Category: The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle
Genre: Daniel's backstory, F/M, I know this book as no fandom, a villain's backstory, but it was worth a try
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 05:20:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18986101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/villainsmatter/pseuds/villainsmatter
Summary: Before finding himself in Daniel Coleridge's body, Daniel Coleridge was Jacob Sinclair.





	Vicious Circle

**Author's Note:**

> I perfectly know that no one cares for this book -let alone for fan fictions about it-, but I had too many questions unanswered and I had to try. Hopefully, someone will read this and like it.

The first time he killed someone, Jacob was thirteen.

It was an accident.

The evening was gloomy, and it was raining and the library was the most comforting place -or, maybe, the least depressing- in the boarding school and the fire, the lights, the steady silence around him were the best company someone as average, as lonely, as boring as him could hope to find -Jacob Sinclair. John Smith. Funny how his name and the protagonist of Auden’s _Unknown Citizen_ shared the same initials. Actually, it wasn’t funny at all-.

It wasn’t supposed to go like that.

Hammerson wasn’t supposed to enter in that room, with his stupid laugh, his stupid friends and his stupid my-father-is-the-headmaster confidence.

They weren’t supposed not to notice him -as if they had a reason to do otherwise. As if anyone had a reason to do otherwise- and to go on with their conversation.

Hammerson wasn’t supposed to talk about his Christmas presents, presents much more expensive than what Jacob could ever dream of receiving, and he most of all wasn’t supposed to mention the new rifle his father got him -against his mother’s will, of course-, rifle that, unknowingly to the headmaster, Hammerson had under his bed, covered with an old blanket and empty bags of chips.

Kniffle, Hammerson’s right arm -and left arm, and brain, most of the time- wasn’t supposed to ask him, with a tone that made it sound more like a dare than a sincere question, if he could actually shoot with it, or if he just liked playing soldiers.

Hammerson wasn’t supposed to lie and Jacob wasn’t supposed to know so well when other people were lying.

It was gift, it had always been a gift.

Later on, that night, Jacob wished he hadn’t received it when he was born.

A loving house, a proud father, a mother who didn’t seem to feel sick at the mere sight of him.

Those were the things he would have easily traded his powers of observation for.

And then, then Hammerson wasn’t supposed to promise them a demonstration, a show, something spectacular and entertaining and fun when he clearly had no idea of what he was doing or saying.

The magic power of being exceptional, of being popular, of knowing your place in the world so well that the others automatically knew too.

People admired young men like that.

Hell, Jacob himself admired young men like that. But, as his mother never failed to remind him, he didn’t have anything in common with Hammerson. He didn’t have anything in common with anyone worth a kind look, or a smile.

He was just like his father.

And those words hurt more than all the slaps Mrs Sinclair never gave him.

_I’m not like him I’m not like him I’m not like him I’m not_

However, nothing that evening would have happened if Hammerson had followed the others outside, in the rain, instead of remaining in the library, in front of the fireplace -probably trying to find a way out of the mess he created. A way not to make a fool of himself in front of his friends-.

Nothing that evening would have happened if Jacob, who didn’t have friends, nor did wish for them, but who knew rifles and guns and bullets better than most people at his age, hadn’t felt a sudden impulse to help a guy he barely knew and who was completely unaware of his existence.

His first meeting with a rifle happened when he was six.

Mrs Sinclair loved haunting and took him with her.

To bond, that was her excuse.

To torture him, that was his impression.

Why else would his mother force him to watch while she killed a big deer and his mate, unaware of her presence and completely helpless?

Jacob had the impression Mrs Sinclair was imagining to shoot his father, not an animal, and that impression still gave him chills all over his backbone.

When Jacob took the rifle from his mother’s hand and killed an animal -a rabbit- for the first time, he was seven. The only reason why he didn’t throw up right on the spot, staining his clothes and shoes, was not to give his parent another reason to be disappointed in him.

 _How can you bear the sight of that?_ He had asked her on their way back home, with a courage he didn’t think he had, the picture of the dead little thing still under his eyes.

 _You get used to it_ had been her cold reply.

And he did.

Seeing someone like Hemmerson in such distress, instead of giving him joy, or triumph, was equally as unsettling, but it also gave him hope.

He knew how to shoot.

The other needed a teacher.

Maybe he could... maybe they could...

Loneliness was a strange sickness and Jacob was tired of being ignored. Of being average.

He desperately wanted to be noticed, even just for half an hour.

Nothing that evening would have happened if Jacob hadn’t asked Hammerson whether he needed some help with that rifle or not -he, a nobody, a scrawny kid with brown hair and brown eyes and clothes that didn’t properly fit him- and if Hammerson hadn’t been so desperate to accept, after discovering that Jacob didn’t want to blackmail, to embarrass, to gain some special privileges from him.

He just wanted a friend.

Pathetic.

And Jacob knew what Hammerson was thinking, knew his words sounded desperate, but he didn’t mind.

That was the strangest thing: the only opinions he cared about were the ones of people who didn’t care about him, even when they should have.

The lesson took place in the park, under the pouring rain: Jacob was taking the biggest risk he could think of, being out in the dark so long after the curfew, while Hammerson... Hammerson was untouchable, invincible -or so he thought, or so everyone up until that moment thought-.

Jacob’s coat was soaked, his vision blurred and his voice almost gone after shouting suggestions -not orders, never orders- at his student for half an hour, under lightnings and thunders and a wind so strong he could feel his little body being carried away with leaves and branches. He damned himself for that situation, for not having been able to refuse when Hammerson asked him to start the practice that evening, despite the terrible weather.

But, on the other hand, his mother had always said he lacked will.

The problem, at the moment, wasn’t that Hammerson was a terrible shooter, but rather a terrible student. Especially since he thought the teacher was so beneath him.

He didn’t listen to a single thing Jacob was trying to tell him, such as how to aim or how to make sure your hand was steady before pulling the trigger and the boy started wondering why the hell he even accepted to take lessons if he was clearly convinced he could do it all on his own.

“You’re holding it wrong” he still managed to say, twitching his lips, despite the situation, in a little smile at the sight of his mate not knowing what to do, for once in his life.

A little smile that, unfortunately, Hammerson noticed.

“Are you laughing at me?” His voice was angry, and bitter, and Jacob’s chest was suddenly in the viewfinder of the rifle.

He bit his lips and tried to stay calm.

“I’m not” he said, making small movements and getting close to the other “Let me show you how to do it. It’s easier than it seems” His hands went near the trigger, ready to pick the weapon up: the feeling was familiar, comforting even. It had been more than one years since he had last shot at anything -since his mother had sent him to the boarding school to get rid of his unwanted presence- and, despite not loving haunting, he also missed the human contact that came with it.

“No” Hammerson tightened his grip over the rifle. “You’re not touching it. It’s mine”

He was throwing a tantrum.

Jacob knew, not because Mrs Sinclair had ever allowed him to throw a tantrum, but because he had seen other people do it. What he didn’t know was how to deal with them.

He thought insisting was the better option.

First mistake.

“Come on, Hammerson. We’ll finish much sooner if you just let me help you”

Hammerson, instead, thought he was making fun of him -as unlikely as it was-.

Second mistake

“I don’t need your help. I don’t even know if you’re making a scene here or if you can actually use this stuff.” Then, his lips cracked in a mocking smile “You’re probably doing it for attention, do you?”

Jacob should have understood that Hammerson had spoken like that because he was tired, and wet, and scared he was going to disappoint his friends and let it go -he was somehow good at reading people, except when personal feelings got in the way-.

He didn’t.

Third mistake.

After five minutes, they were arguing, which was strange, because Jacob had never argued with anyone before -his mother had taught him to stay invisible and silent and he had always obeyed her, no matter what-.

And even more strange was that he was actually shouting too, his hands around the rifle, trying to pull it close to him, to use it, to show Hammerson -to show his mother- that he was actually good at something, that he wasn’t boring, or ordinary, or pathetic and, most of all that he wasn’t a liar.

That he wasn’t a liar like his father.

The thought made him even angrier.

_I’m not like him I’m not like him I’m not like him I’m not-_

Bang.

He heard the sound and, for a couple of seconds, thought he was the one getting shot. He almost felt the pain in his chest where the bullet should have been.

But then, then Hammerson fell, his mouth wide open his eyes surprised his shirt suddenly red, and Jacob noticed, much to his horror, that he was holding the rifle.

Panic took control of him. He threw the weapon on the ground, his trembling hands suddenly too small and too weak to hold it, and stayed still, his gaze fixed on the scene in front of him, for what felt like ages.

Then he started running.

One day, he would shoot a person in the back and not even flinch. One day, he would approach the corpse and rummage in his pockets with absolute calm. One day, killing someone would simply seem to him as the quickest way to save himself.

But the road that would led him to that moment was still long.

Once he was again in the building, trembling and with the sudden urge to throw up on the floor, he let himself fall against a wall, feeling the cold evening entering in his bones and cracking them open.

He should tell someone.

Maybe Hammerson was still alive.

Maybe he didn’t see what he thought.

Maybe someone would believe him when he said it’d been an accident.

But then, his mother’s voice started whispering, and all his good intentions faded once again in fear.

Hammerson was dead.

He had shot him in the chest.

And no one would believe him, nor the headmaster, who had just lost his son, nor his classmates, all of them infatuated with Hammerson as much as he was. Not even Mrs Sinclair, who had always told him he was going to follow his father’s footsteps.

There wasn’t a family ready to fight for him, nor friends on his side no matter what.

He would be arrested.

Processed.

Hanged.

And no one would care.

He didn’t even realized he had come back in the library up until he was in front of the fireplace, trying to get some warmth out of the dying flames.

He took off his coat and his gloves, and then stood there, pondering what to do.

Those clothes were tainted with gun powder.

He had to hide them.

He had to dry himself and then go to bed.

He had to act normal -invisible- like he had always done.

He didn’t want to die.

Despite his decision, the only decision he could make, the only decision that seemed reasonable at that moment, the sight of Hammerson in the woods -on the ground, alone, dead- filled him with so much shame and regret that he started crying, sobbing so loud that he was sure that someone would come and find him.

No one did.

“I’m sorry” he whispered “I’m sorry, I didn’t... I thought I... I just wanted...”

He covered his mouth with his right hand and stayed that way with hours.

 _How do you live with a murder on your conscience?_ He thought

_How do you go on with your life knowing someone else is dead because of you?_

_How do you get used to it?_

He didn’t think it possible, back then, but he would.


End file.
